


He was a great Guy [Sherlock and John oneshot]

by iszy_chan



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-23
Updated: 2014-02-23
Packaged: 2018-01-13 13:32:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1228243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iszy_chan/pseuds/iszy_chan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A oneshot from a scene in the BBC Sherlock series 3 episode 1: The Empty Hearse. John is kidnapped and wakes up in a Guy Fawkes bonfire, and soon loses hope. All from John's perspective. [Obviously] contains spoilers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	He was a great Guy [Sherlock and John oneshot]

The first thing John felt was the heavy weight of something pushing down against him. He felt it nearly all over his body--the weight restricting his legs, his arms and his torso. He could only move his head, which he found difficult when he tried to turn his head away from the sharp object poking into the side of his face. He felt the stinging spikes drag across his forehead, drawing attention to the blow he had to his temple, the blood trickling down past his ear and across his forehead where he had turned it into the dirt.

His mind clicked, remembering the attack on him outside 221b.  _Where am I?_

There was the strong musk of pine in the air, and finally having enough strength to open his eyes, he realised many dead branches had been packed on top of him, along with various other pieces of sharp wood that dug into his arms and legs. He squinted in the darkness, turning his head away from the thick air suddenly surrounding him. Was that smoke?

He found his wrists tightly bond together, stopping him from being able to push the wood. John opened his mouth. He had to say something _\--anything,_  to alert people nearby that he was here. He could hear the laughter of small children, accompanied by the laughter and chatter of adults. They seemed very close--why couldn't they see him? He tried to speak, but his throat was swollen and he couldn't make out any words. The way he had been thrown on the ground when unconscious made his back muscles tighten and his lungs restricted, his throat naturally closing up from the pressure. He could barely breathe, let alone speak.

He tried moving his arms up, but the wood pressed against them, nearly slicing through his jacket. He tried to look up, straining his neck in all directions. He had to keep calm, although he knew he couldn't, the tight feeling in his chest weighing him down even more as his pulse picked up, his movements becoming more jerking and panicked.

His voice, like before, struggled to come out, nothing but a pathetic whimper.  _"H-he-hel--"_

It barely came out, a whisper of the words. He pushed against the wood with his joined hands, already knowing he was too weak to even move one jagged piece.  _"H-h-h-el-p."_

There was suddenly heat by his ankles, licking at the edges of his jeans, just hot enough for him to feel the pain.

"Argh _\--he-hel-p!"_

The pain went away with the heat, but he knew it wouldn't be long before it came back. His mind had cleared up enough to work out where he was, and he could just see the sack faced, clothed and newspapered figure of Guy Fawkes above him.

He was in the bonfire.

John struggled more, the dead plants scraping at his bare skin, on his hands, ankles, face and neck.  _"He-lp! H-hel-p me!"_

There was a voice of a man, saying that he would get something to help the fire along.

"No, _pl-ease! He-lp! A-a-anyo-ne!"_

There was another voice, high and of a girl. "He doesn't like it. Daddy, Guy Fawkes doesn't like it!"

Her voice drifted away, John desperately wanting to yell out, but his voice restricted him. She had heard, she had been close enough to hear. Was there anyone else close enough?

 _"He-lp!_  Please! Help!" He began thrashing, his panic taking over his controls, his hands spazeming against the sharp wood, desperately trying to get away. Something wet suddenly hit his face, the smell overpowering his senses.

Petrol.

_Shit._

The petrol dazed his senses, his vision sharpening and then blurring, going in and out of focus. "Please! Hel-p me!"

Then he felt the heat.

It started at his ankles again, the heat slowly reaching his shins. But because of the petrol, it spread alarmingly fast, his vision suddenly burst with the light of the orange flames, making him squint his eyes shut and turn his head away from the heat. He felt his blood in his hairline, the thick hot liquid running down his forehead and across his other ear against the dirt. The wood shifted from the heat slowly tearing it apart, the cheers of the crowd painfully loud in John's ears. The heated wood pressed against his stomach, freeing his lungs. The lump in his throat seemed to vanish, and his throat opened up, his voice coming out in a broken shout.

"Help me! Please, someone help me!"

The earsplitting scream was enough proof that he had been heard. He could feel the heat growing against his face and clothes, cooking him like chicken in a plastic bag. The heat became so unbearable he was forced to stay still and accept the fact that he was being burned alive. Crying out once in pain, he squinted his eyes shut, trying to bury his face in the hot dirt to try and shield it from the fire.

"H-help! Anyone!"

He was slipping away from consciousness again, the blow to his head draining away all his energy, the muscles in his legs relaxing from trying to heave the wood off him.

"H-help!"

"Move!  _Move!"_

The voice he heard was too far away to put a face or name to, but it was desperate.  _Why is the voice desperate_?

"John,  _John!_  Move!"

John... that was his name. Was someone coming to save him?

A broken, female voice accompanied the man in calling his name, coming closer. But how could they reach John? The fire was so close, so hot, how would they find him?

"H-help! Over... over... here!"

The wood began to shift against him, just as he yelled one final time, exhaustion making all his limbs fall weak, his eyes fluttering closed again.

"John!  _John!_ "

Something tight gripped his ankle, tugging at him. He wanted to squirm away, let the darkness consume him, but his whole body had given up long ago. He let the vice gripping his ankle tug until he felt himself move slightly. The force kept tugging, more and more rough until cold air suddenly hit his shins,  horrible contrast to the oven his top half was still trapped in. More tight grasps pulled at his arms, the cold air hitting further up his body, finally hitting his face.

He gasped for air, the smoke no longer constricting his lungs. He was faintly aware of a large hand cupping his face, another on his shoulder shaking him. "Come on, John. John!" 

He coughed, barely being able to turn his head to the side.

"John, can you hear me? John!"

He opened his heavy eyelids, glaring slightly as the face very close to his.

The face, finally getting a name placed to it, was Sherlock, who looked relieved and sighed in relief before going to work to undo the restraints on his wrists. Another figure was behind him, tightly grasping John's hands once they were freed. He turned his head slightly to see Mary beside him, smiling slightly with tears her eyes.

"John, you're okay, don't worry. An ambulance is coming."

He swallowed hard before turning his head to the side, having another coughing fit.

Assuming the rest of John was uninjured, Sherlock moved to examine the deep gash on his head. "Stay still," he commanded softly, resting his gloved fingers on John's face. He dabbed at the blood, seeing that the bleeding had stopped.

"I... I di-ed," John whispered in a raspy voice, lifting both his hands to check they weren't burnt.

"Don't be melodramatic, you nearly died," Sherlock scolded, finding a piece of cloth to dab away the blood soaking John's hairline. Mary was now fussing over John's pulse, trying to keep him still as he wriggled on the floor, itching to sit up.

"I-I'm f-ine," he croaked, giving her a reassuring smile as he gripped Sherlock's arm, using him as support as he pulled himself into a sitting position. Sherlock too protested, but with a firm glare at the pair of them, John was sitting up, leaning against Sherlock who was still kneeling beside him. "Th-that was c-lose," he said quietly, his hands shaking to do the zip up on his jacket. Not holding onto Sherlock for support was taking up enough of his energy to keep upright, the shock and the cold London air making his scraped hands violently shake.

Mary took his hands away from his jacket, holding him upright as Sherlock stripped off his trenchcoat. John glanced confused over his shoulder at Sherlock who had stood up, but he relaxed when he felt the veil of warmth cover his shoulders, the oversized coat going up to his neck and over his knees, the warmth comforting compared to the unbearable heat of the fire still blazing, no families no longer cheering or gazing at it, but rather at John.

Some people still stood in shock, processing the fact that a man had just been pulled out of a burning bonfire, others near them, glancing worriedly at John. Someone seemed on the phone, perhaps to an ambulance service.

"Thanks," John whispered, drawing the coat close around him, tiredly leaning back against Sherlock when he kneeled beside him again. His head was against Sherlock's shoulder, Mary on his other side with a tissue trying to clear up as much of the blood on his face as she could. He could feel Sherlock's worried gaze on him as he looked away from the fire, glancing across the empty streets for any blue flashing lights. His eyes were heavy, his blinking thick and slow.

"Stay with me, John," Sherlock said, reaching down and lightly shaking John's shoulder. "Look, over there." He pointed to the other side of the street, and John could only just hear the faint wailing and blue lights mirrored by the building windows. The ambulance finally came into view, and feeling satisfied that they were here, John let his head droop, all of his weight against Sherlock, his eyes closed as he fell into the sleep that had been threatening to take him ever since he had woken up buried under a pile of wood.


End file.
